


absolute bearing (true north is you)

by anupturnedboat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, First Love, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 11:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anupturnedboat/pseuds/anupturnedboat
Summary: For a moment he is there, his brow furrowed his blue eyes vigilant, ready to step in front of her. Idiot. Then he is mist and spray, falling away.  And the grin on her face fades.AryaxGendry - post series





	absolute bearing (true north is you)

 

1.

She remembers being a mouse, in a scratchy gray shift with dirty hair.Scuttling around Harrenhal with her head down, and her eyes and ears open, yearning for word of her mother, or Robb or Jon, her heart in her throat. 

She once had her list, her sword, Gendry - and that was all.

She was that girl once, and then she wasn’t.

Now, she’s something else. 

The ocean is never still.She learns that at the start.It rolls and swells under her.It tries to knock her off her feet, but she doesn’t waver.It is tumult, and spray, and wind, and then it sings her creaky pirate lullabies at night.

It isn’t a proposal, it isn’t expectations she can’t fulfill.It isn’t blood under her nails, screams, the ringing of bells. 

She doesn’t think about that bloody list.Sometimes she thinks about him, and then reminds herself that she is not that girl.

She draws mountain ranges, islands, and inlets in the blank spaces of her map.

The chief officer tells her they are 1000 leagues from White Harbor.She does not do the math.Winterfell and Storm’s End are places she’s already been.

2.

 

He’s stupid for caring, for wondering.But there he was, in strange clothes, in this strange place, making decisions that he has no right to make. _Wondering._

She doesn’t acknowledge him, and he sits ram-rod straight, not allowing even one betraying glance, not even when she sends threatening words the Greyjoy woman’s way. 

The distance between this place and Storm’s End is not nearly as far as the distance to Winterfell, a place he imagines he’ll never see again. He is anxious to get there, anxious to leave this place that still reeks of ash and death and blood.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?”

He should be surprised, but he isn’t.He doesn’t turn, finishes with his saddle instead. “Isn’t that how we do this?”

“I didn’t want you following after me.”

“Good to know,” he shoots back, looking over her head. He can’t meet her eyes.He can’t.

“I wasn’t planning on coming back,” she says closing the distance between them.“I didn’t want you to die because of me.”

He wants to protest, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but she stops him.“You would have.Everyone died.”

“I am not as fragile as you seem to think I am,” he says, anger, hurt, coloring his words.He knows she can see it on his face. She’s like a wall and he’s always worn his heart on his stupid sleeve. 

“To Storm’s End then?”

He nods, a lump in his throat.He’s stupid.

“You will be a wonderful lord.”

“You already said that,” he mutters, the weight of something he doesn’t fully understand between them.

“I know,” she says her hand on his heart, that stupid lump in his throat.

She kisses him hard and fast, and is gone before he can do anything other than ache.

3.

Ocean swells can travel great distances, meeting up with other swells all heading in different directions, borne by wind and time.She watches this from the deck, her house sigil flapping on the mast behind her.

She draws breath, great and deep, salt and wind and freedom.She once hid her true self to survive, and then she was no one, and now she is an ocean swell. 

They make land the next morning.This port city is like any other port city. But here they don’t know _Stark_.They don’t call her father traitor.They don’t make crude gestures miming his execution.

Here, for a moment, the squeezing in her chest lessens a little.Maybe, here, she can forget what she has seen, what she has done, what she has lost.

But, this is just a port city like any other, so probably not.But there are more places to go, and she wants to see them all.

They make their trades, and buy provisions.She makes a mark for it on her map.

A few more men join her crew. None have his dark hair, or his blue eyes.

They set sail once again.

 

4.

This place is not a home.It is gray and wind whipped and full of old magic.

It makes him cautious; he avoids the women who watch him with curious eyes.

There is a ghost, a specter with dirty hair and bare feet following him with all her questions.She is Valyrian steel, a forest lass. She carries daggers of Dragonglass, and is smoke and ash when he leans in.

Davos replies to his scroll with one of his own. _Arya is at sea, with a ship and crew of her own, left White Harbor more than a fortnight ago._

It’s the distance he expects but now he knows for sure.

It doesn’t change anything.

She’s still a ghost in his house, a dagger in his heart, a thorn in his side.

 

5.

There is a storm coming out of the North and they are nowhere near land.The men turn the stern to the wind.

They won’t capsize. _They won’t_.

The rain pelts her face.

They strike the vessels sail and unstep the mast.There are muttered prayers to the Gods, but she keeps her hand on the rail, feels the ship rise, undulate, crash through the waves.

_Not today._

That is when she sees it; an unbelievable, wondrous, looking thing, a great beast rearing its silvery head above the waves, then sliding back beneath.

She thinks of dragons at Winterfell.

She turns to make sure he has seen, and for a moment he is there, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes vigilant, ready to step in front of her. Idiot.

Then he is mist and spray, falling away.And the grin on her face fades.

 

 

6.

There are cooks, and grooms, carpenters and masons - even a falconer.Steward Bradley hires them, and sees to their schedules.

His only request is that they also see to their families.None in his employ will go hungry or cold.

The gray walls fill with life and, and music and things that grow green in gardens he didn’t even know existed.

He explores the grounds; brackish air and scrubby spruce trees that endure the blustery weather. He stands at the edge of a cliff overlooking a turbulent sea.

He wonders what it is to be Baratheon – no one’s told him, and he wonders if he will ever know.And does it even matter when he’s the only one?

He visits the armory, the stables and the forge; people bow and call him lord.It’s unsettling, but he’s learning.

He has a chamberlain who keeps a fire burning always, prepares his bed and cleans out his basins. 

At night he is restless, there is a ghost, ash and smoke, with a dagger aimed at his heart.He lonesome and lost, but he’s learning.

 

7.

“What’s a lass, like you doing in a place like this?”

She regards the man in front of her with a steely glare; he’s all swagger, and black leathers. She’s seen his type before, and she isn’t interested. “Mind your own,” she says low, warning.

He smirks, as if it is some kind of invitation, and straddles a chair at her table.

He’s got a ring of rubies on his pinkie and one of those West Country accents.He keeps talking as she finishes her ale.

“You should be careful; places like this are no place for a lady like you.”

“I am no lady,” she says harshly her mouth drawn tight.

He raises his brow to that.His eyes follow the hand that drops her hand to her waist, just in case. 

“You don’t need that,” he says eyeing her sword. “I don’t mean you any harm, especially not that kind.”

“A pirate with honor,” she scoffs. 

“Never judge a book,” he smiles leaning in, and she finds herself charmed, or maybe just lonely.

They drink another. “What are you running from?” he asks later, pinning her to the spot with knowing eyes that make her squirm.

“Not running from anything,” she replies testily.She should get back to the ship.She’s already drunk more ale than she is used to.

“Everybody’s running from something, love,” he calls after her.She does not turn, but her heart clenches tight in her chest.

 

 

8.

There are ghosts, and then there are real things.Arya Stark is a ghost, and he has come to accept that.And as much as his heart has ached, it is stitching itself back together.

Sela is pretty. Pretty yellow hair, pretty smile. She tells him stories about Durran Godsgrief, stories he’s never heard, stories about the children of the forest.

She doesn’t ask about the ghost in the halls. 

She doesn’t make his stupid heart stutter in that stupid way, but that’s safer. That’s what he’s learning.

When she kisses him the only storm clouds are the ones in the sky.

 

 

9.

She remembers being a ghost; slinking along the rooftops, watching Gendry in the armory, that stubborn look on his face, the curve of his biceps, the hiss of steam. 

She had been a girl (ghost) then, she was a girl no more.

She doesn’t expect him to have waited for her. 

She can be his friend. She can see his face and know that he is well, and that she is almost whole, at last. This is what they are now.She won’t ask for more.

Still, there is hammering in her head, she can feel the thrum of it coursing through to the reins in her hands.

 

 

10.

There is a storm lashing the keep.And he is surprised to hear a rider has appeared at the gate.

She is steel and ice as usual, but his heart, his stupid, stupid heart, thunders in his chest.

“Are you going to invite me in?” she asks, handing off her horse’s reigns. “It’s really cold and I’m soaked.”

He doesn’t ask her what she is doing here, where she has been, what she wants, if she loves him still, if she ever did.

He can’t afford to hope.

“Do you hate me that much, that you can’t spare a word?” she asks, later, carefully.

Her long hair is in a braid down her back that’s mostly come undone.She’s in scruffy clothes borrowed from one of the staff.She has never been more beautiful

“I’ve never hated you Arya,” he says finally meeting her eyes.He feels laid open, bare.He has always worn his emotions on his sleeve.

He can see her thinking, thinking, her usually blank demeanor a storm cloud.

She steps toward him, her sun kissed skin close, and he resists the urge to reach out and touch. She’s so different, but she also still the same girl that once broke his heart.

Kissing Arya Stark, is nothing like kissing a ghost.

But it’s not forever, and his heart may never stitch itself back together if he lets hope in, “Arya,” he warns gruffly, stopping her. 

“I miss you,” she says against his lips, her gray eyes holding him fast.

11.

It’s not perfect, but there is a feather bed in their cabin, and sun and wind and silver moons. They find new places, strange trails they walk down hand in hand.

And when they are borne home by the sea, they visit the old places. Arya carries her sisters red-headed babe on her hip, gives the child her first sword. 

Jon hugs his sister tight, there is gray in his hair, and wounds that are still healing. But he’s learned to smile and that is something.

They chart a new way, no lords, no ladies, just this.


End file.
